Sunday, February 11, 2007

In January (Ted Kooser)

Only one cell in the frozen hive of nightis lit, or so it seems to us:this Vietnamese café, with its oily light,its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers.Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks.Beyond the glass, the wintry citycreaks like an ancient wooden bridge.A great wind rushes under all of us.The bigger the window, the more it trembles.